That Perfect Moment
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark's thoughts, motivations and desires re: a certain bunny girl. Movie Universe.


**That Perfect Moment**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 7,355

Rating: M / R

Summary: Mark's thoughts, motivations and desires re: a certain bunny girl.

Disclaimer: I'm making it all up as I go along.

Notes: I kind of went down this path once before in an A/U sort of way, but this was strictly meant to remain faithful to the movie.

In trying to think of a title, I jotted this down (well, typed it in a chat window to C.): "I was fixed on that moment on the lake, the one where he realizes he thinks she's the most beautiful girl he knows. And I'm thinking sunshine-dappled water and her laughter, just that perfect moment he can't tear himself away from."

* * *

Mark should have known he ought to have paid closer attention to the conversation.

It was a leisurely Saturday lunch at his Holland Park home with his parents, who were in town for a show, and Natasha, a colleague of his with whom things had gotten a little more complicated; she had, after working too late one night at Mark's house, made it abundantly clear she was interested in him, and so they had slept together, with the result being that she was staying over at least three times a week and seemed to want most of his free time.

Unsurprisingly for a Friday, she had stayed over the previous night and had thus invited herself to stay for this parental lunch; he could tell that his mother was put off by the dark-haired woman nearly at once.

As they talked, his mind wandered to work, to the weather, to the odd, occasional clunking noise coming out from under the bonnet of the car, to his father's upcoming birthday. He came crashing back to the present when he heard Natasha announce:

"I have nothing in my diary for that weekend, Elaine. Mark, shall we pencil it in?"

"Excuse me, sorry," said Mark. "Pencil what in?"

His mother looked to him with a severe expression. "I was reminding you, _Mark_," she said pointedly, "of the Alconburys' summer party in a couple of weeks' time."

His father sat eyebrow-deep in the newspaper, oblivious.

"Oh, yes, right," Mark said resignedly. "Wasn't it supposed to be some kind of fancy dress party?"

"Yes, I think it might be," said Elaine, glancing to Natasha.

"Oh, that's no bother," said Natasha, reaching for another bite of salad. "_We_ certainly don't have to dress up. And oh, Mark," she added brightly, her dark eyes twinkling, "we could make a weekend of it. It's in Grafton Underwood, right?"

"We're having the floors polished," said Elaine automatically. "No guests for us, I'm afraid."

"I'll arrange it, then, Mark," said Natasha, unperturbed. "There's a little place near to Grafton Underwood that is absolutely delightful."

It hardly mattered what Mark's opinion was; it would be arranged to her liking regardless of what he said.

"We will need to review those depositions for court the following week," he reminded.

"Well, we can do some review out in the country. We've proven to be very apt at mixing business with pleasure," she said in what he guessed she meant to be a coy tone.

"So Mark," spoke up Elaine suddenly. "Have you spoken to Pam's daughter Bridget?"

"What?" he asked, caught off-guard.

"You know, _Bridget_," added his father. "Pretty girl. Filled out very nicely."

"No," Mark said quickly.

"Do you mean that blonde we saw at the book launch?" cut in Natasha. "You spoke to her briefly and all she could think to say to introduce you to Perpetua was that you were from Grafton Underwood."

"And a human rights—" he tried to interject.

"And do you know," said Natasha, turning to Elaine, "she made a speech and had no idea that the microphone only needed switching on? Made a complete—"

"Natasha, please pass the salt," said Mark curtly.

She turned to him with a smile and handed him the shaker.

Before long, lunch was over and his parents were gathering up their things to head to the theatre for the matinee. "Always nice to see you, Mark," said his mother as she reached up to kiss his cheek, then turned to Natasha with a cool smile. "Ms Glenville. Until next time."

"Enjoy the show," Natasha said.

"Mark, walk us out?" his mother said in a tone that meant she would brook no refusal. He did, and shot Natasha a look that told her in no uncertain terms not to accompany them.

Once they were off of the back patio, up the kitchen stairs and in the house proper, his mother decided to speak again. "How long have you been seeing Ms Glenville?" she asked.

"We're not really seeing each other," he said.

Elaine levelled her gaze at him. "Mark, I'm not stupid," she said with a smile.

What he wanted to say was that they were only just casually sleeping together but that was not the sort of thing one said to one's mother. "It's not serious," he said instead.

"She seems very much attached to you," she said in response. "Frankly, I'm a little surprised at her manners, calling me by my first name; much too familiar of her."

Malcolm made a dismissive sound. "Elaine, that's the way young ones are today," he said.

"But I've only just met her. That's not a particularly good way of showing respect," said Elaine. "For example, I've known Pam's Bridget for years and she still calls me 'Mrs Darcy'. _That's_ respect for you." She smiled.

"Sweet girl, that Bridget," piped in his father. "Cute as a button."

"So you've said," Mark returned with irritation, even as he recalled that she was. "Best be off or you'll miss your show."

Heading for the door, Elaine turned and kissed her son on the cheek again. "I love you, Mark," she said, resting her hands on his upper arms, fixing her eyes on his.

Any thoughts or annoyances with his mother that had crept up on him during that exchange vanished. "I love you too," he replied, then looked to his father. "Both of you."

Malcolm patted Mark's shoulder affectionately. "Yes, yes," he said in reply. "See you in a couple of weeks."

………

What Natasha had described as a 'little place near Grafton Underwood' turned out to be a hotel that had once been the largest estate in the area, complete with sprawling grounds, a private stream and, as luck would have it, the bulk of the place occupied by a wedding that weekend. She insisted she did not know in advance, and seemed very happy by the serendipity of the occurrence.

"How lovely," she cooed as they entered the main hall in order to check in, following the bellhop in who bore their bags; there were white flowers and ribbons everywhere. "Isn't it an amazingly grand place?"

"It is quite spectacular," he admitted, glancing around.

"Like I said, they told me they were nearly full when I booked," she said, "but they didn't say why. Perfect, perfect place for this sort of thing."

"I imagine it would be," he said.

She checked them in and signed the register, then they were led up to their room, a respectable suite complete with queen-sized bed, wingback chairs, table and private deluxe bath. "Nice," said Mark. "Very comfortable."

"It's not one of the bigger rooms they offer," said Natasha, "but with the wedding here it's all they had available."

Mark said nothing, simply set his bag down on the bureau.

Natasha continued, "Let's have lunch outside, then spend some time working."

"Sure."

"Even better still," she said, "we can get one of those rowboats and work on the water. So delightful."

Mark reached into his bag and pulled a jumper out. It was a sunny day but there was something of a cool breeze, likely to be cooler still on the water, even though he knew he'd be the one doing all of the rowing.

They descended the main staircase with Natasha carrying her picnic basket and still going on about organising the afternoon—as if obtaining tea then rowing on the water weren't easy enough to plan—when he saw two figures at the front desk. The woman turned at their approach and to his complete surprise it was Bridget; her hair, for whatever reason, was puffed up very large, and she wore an expression of surprise before politely returning Natasha's greeting.

The man also turned around. It was, to his chagrin, Daniel Cleaver.

As Natasha walked away to corral a waiter about the tea, Mark said, "Well, well. I take it you're also heading for the Alconburys' rockery?"

"Yes, that's right," said Bridget stiffly.

"I brought Natasha," he said, mostly to fill the silence, his attaché case suddenly heavy in his hand. "Get a bit of work done—thought I might make it a not entirely wasted weekend."

Daniel, however, piped up with a sarcastic, "How interesting. What a gripping life you lead." He turned back to Bridget. "I'll see you upstairs in a minute." With that he dashed up the stairs, leaving Mark alone with Bridget, their eyes meeting.

Not once breaking his gaze, she simply smiled in a rather forced manner, reached her hand up to smooth down her hair with great deliberation. He thought about saying something to her, but she looked at him with such intensity, as if she were daring him to speak, that he said nothing at all. Apparently considering herself triumphant, she then ascended the stairs herself.

It was an innocuous encounter on the surface, but one that left his thoughts in a whirlwind. He realised pretty quickly that her mad hair was not something she had done on purpose; knowing Daniel, probably the result of his convertible's top being down. She was clearly mortified by her hair, straining to maintain her dignity with an air of cool detachment… _yet_, he thought, _why did she look at me like she despises me?_

Moreover, why did he care? Why did his gaze follow her up those stairs, lingering on her longer than it should?

………

Mark was able to arrange for a boat just as she showed up to the boathouse with a Thermos of piping hot tea tucked into basket. He stopped to slip into his jumper, then they made their way over to the boathouse. They were out and on the water within minutes, and she pulled out the tea and sandwiches. The tea was black with lemon, not his favourite, and was considering which sandwich to choose when he became aware of Natasha speaking.

"Absolutely horrible, _horrible_, don't you think?"

He looked up to see her peering intently at him.

"Mark," she said, narrowing her eyes, "don't tell me you disagree."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't hear what you said."

"Why are you so bloody distracted lately?" she asked. "I _said_, what do you suppose is the story with that Bridget person? The hair, the outfit from at least three summers ago… just horrible." She sipped her tea as he decided at last on a cucumber sandwich. "I haven't seen a bouffant like that since 1963, _honestly_."

"I suspect she was windblown," he said, holding up the sandwich to bite. "The man she's with has a penchant for convertibles."

"And denim!" she continued as if he hadn't spoken at all. "To a place like this. Might as well be wearing Bermuda shorts and a loud print Hawaiian shirt."

"It's possible," he said, reflecting that her outfit, denim, cotton or whatever it was, had looked very attractive on her, "that she had no idea where she was being brought."

Natasha leaned back a little and grinned. "I should have expected you'd defend her. After all, it's in your nature."

"What's in my nature?"

"To defend people," she said. "Most of whom deserve it… some of whom don't."

Why _was_ he defending Bridget, especially when she seemed to dislike him so much? Rather than respond, he merely looked at Natasha penetratingly, then picked up his tea and drank the last of it. "Come," he said coolly. "Let's finish our sandwiches so we can get started."

After eating, Natasha pulled papers out of Mark's attaché and they launched straight into work. As predicted, Mark did the rowing.

It was a gorgeous day, cool air on the water as expected, and as he rowed he found himself tuning Natasha's voice out and just enjoying the breathtaking nature around them. It was, however, the sound of other voices skating out over the surface of the water that brought him back to reality.

Daniel, Bridget, two boats, low-quality American beer, and an apparent race.

Daniel was making jokes—a rather rude, dirty limerick, to be perfectly honest—which was so very like him. It was not Daniel, though, who had captured his attention, had caused time itself to pause and turn seconds into hours.

Sunlight lit her hair bright as gold, and her laughter, her smile, captured his gaze and refused to let go. She was, at that moment, everything that was light and fun, happy and carefree, spontaneous and charming.

He realised instantly that, despite all logic and common sense, he was undeniably attracted to her, and it disturbed him to the core. It was easy to see now that the first glimmer of these unwanted feelings had really begun back at the book launch party, though they were then much easier to deny as a one-off occurrence, to tamp down as a fluke.

After all, she smoked, she drank, she had no internal editor and therefore could be brazenly outspoken; her maturity and self-discipline was questionable at best; she behaved in unexpected and surprising ways; she was not at all like the polished and refined women he was used to having around him, perfectly groomed and poised like his current companion.

He was afraid that all of this was in part what he was attracted to.

The very notion that she wore her emotions on her sleeve, not afraid to smile or laugh when happy, and, recalling the book launch again, her sorrow when disappointed, piqued his interest despite his better judgement. He would have given anything to be in that boat with her, to switch places with Daniel, whom, he realised, had not himself yet lost interest in her, practically a record for the man.

Daniel had caught up to her, and as he got to his feet, wobbling to stay upright while struggling to board her rowboat, she shouted protests of "No!" even as she continued laughing unabashedly. Mark watched as Daniel lost his footing and landed in the shallow water, not without a certain measure of satisfaction on Mark's part.

Mark could not take his eyes off of her, and as she continued to laugh, then chuckle, then smile, she looked back at him over the top edge of her sunglasses.

Like a bolt from reality, he heard Natasha's voice say, "So childish."

He looked to Natasha. "Yes," he said, though his eyes were drawn back to Bridget, who was still grinning as she looked away.

Shouting something to Mark about working too hard, Daniel got his boat to the shallows and managed to get back in with a shred of dignity. He then paddled back towards Bridget with a vengeance, and she, for her part, started paddling back the way they'd come, shouting taunts to him as Daniel easily outpaced her, bumping her boat and sending her spinning around. They drifted further and further away, still laughing, still having fun.

"Mark."

He snapped to attention. "Yes?"

She'd pursed her mouth. "If you didn't want to work right now, you could have just said so."

He glanced away, but could no longer see Bridget, hear her, so he brought his eyes back to Natasha. "I'm sorry. What were you saying about the deposition taken in the middle of September contradicting the earlier one?"

"Well, the deposition from the end of August clearly skirts the issue—"

She went on, and he tried to pay attention, but he kept thinking of that childish, improper, sunshine-filled vision of unfettered joy. He tried desperately to think of the last time he laughed like that, and could not conjure up the memory.

………

With the wedding reception taking up the dining room, they ordered supper in and ate it in the setting sun at the table just inside the suite, the balcony doors thrown wide. He had wanted to eat on the balcony proper, but Natasha had quashed that, complaining that they would have seemed like vulgar spectators to the wedding reception. The air was delightful and cool and the tail end of the setting sun was gorgeous; the soft music was drifting up from the reception underscoring the peace of the night.

"Lovely evening," Mark said, sipping from his glass of wine.

"Mm, yes," Natasha replied. "Very pleasant. Bodes well for tomorrow's summer fete, that the sky's so cloudless."

"True," said Mark. "Very true."

"Is the view much different from your parents' house?" she asked.

"No, actually," said Mark, feeling a little sleepy from all the fresh air. "I think their back balcony faces the sunset, too."

"We'll have to have lunch with them, sometime," she said, tipping her chin up, smirking in a self-satisfied way. "Hmmm," she said languorously. "As much as I love London, it would be fantastic to have a view like this all the time."

"I'll talk to my mother."

"Surely Elaine won't mind—"

He cringed a little at her use of his mother's first name knowing how much his mother hated it, but then Natasha was interrupted by the sound of a woman's voice shrieking in at first what seemed almost like pain, but what soon turned into a laugh. _Bridget's_ laugh.

"Daniel, _stop_!" came her voice amidst giggles. They must have had their balcony opened too, and clearly their room was not very far away.

He watched Natasha roll her eyes and otherwise look appalled.

Mark heard the low rumble of Daniel's voice in reply, too low to make out the individual words, but the resultant giggles, then _Oh_s, made it obvious as to what their after-dinner activity was.

"_Disgusting_ display," Natasha spat. "Talk about vulgar! Balcony wide open and all."

He said nothing, merely cleared his throat, and rose to close the doors.

"That we should have to close ourselves in…" she continued. He tuned her out, pausing for a moment before pulling the door shut altogether, hearing what was obviously sounds of two persons deep in the throes of passion. Bridget's higher voice, however, seemed to rise and carry further, striking him low in his gut.

As much as he wanted to ignore it, he could not say that he was unaffected, hearing her respond so enthusiastically, obviously enjoying herself immensely. It made him think of his own trysts, and he could not honestly think of when he'd laughed in bed, had so much fun making love with a woman; not with his ex-wife, and certainly not with Natasha, who liked having his attention and his ear but was not what he would call passionate or eager, liked the hold she had over him with sex rather than enjoying it for what it was.

"I'm having a bath," announced Natasha, taking off her belt and heading for the loo.

It was just as well, as he had no desire at all to go through the motions of monotonous, perfunctory sex with her; he undressed down to his boxers and undershirt, dug into his bag for then dressed in his pyjamas, and left all but the light on next to her side of the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, but it seemed with the silence and the dim of the room that the walls had grown that much thinner, and he could still hear Bridget's voice carrying over.

He turned over, hoping a different angle might quell the sound, but it did not; unbidden in his mind's eye he imagined Bridget, and though he tried mightily to push the vision from his head, he wondered what it might be like to engage in such activity with her, so boisterous and responsive, so exuberant about her pleasure.

_Stop it_, he told himself, feeling ashamed. She had absolutely no self-control, no sense at all of what was right and proper; she was consistently embarrassing herself and those in her wake—

He realised that, much to his relief, the sounds had rather abruptly stopped and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that sleep would find him despite the relatively early hour. It did not. He could only puzzle in his head: if she was so generally objectionable to him in manner and behaviour, why was he so drawn to her?

When Natasha finished in the bathroom, he still had not fallen to sleep, but he remained turned away from her, feigning slumber as she slipped between the smooth sheets. "Mark," she said softly. He did not respond. "Mark," she said again. Still nothing. Letting out a petulant huff, she settled back against her pillow. He heard the pages of a book turning.

He did eventually fall to sleep, and as he did he could hear the faint sounds of lovemaking starting up again. He wished he could say that they had no effect on his dreams that evening, but they did; they were filled with images of what his mind pictured Bridget would look like under her clothes, soft and curvy and quite receptive to caresses… specifically, his caresses, which in his dream-world she was quite enjoying.

A voice interrupted his dreams, the voice of the woman who was actually there in bed beside him, whom he had spooned up against. "Oh, _Mark_," she said in an uncharacteristically throaty voice, then turned over, thrust her hand into the front of his pyjama trousers and, mistaking the reason for his nocturnal arousal, proceeded to relieve his suffering.

………

Mark rose practically when the sun did, grabbed his bag and immediately headed for the loo, feeling especially in need of a shower after remembering what had happened as a result of his dreaming. His time in the shower was long and the water was extra hot as it sluiced down over his head and body. He had certainly slept with her before but he had never once done what he had done during the night last night—because frankly, he rarely if ever had that sort of dream.

It was very much unlike him.

He left the bathroom, clad in fresh boxers and an undershirt to find she had awakened, was sitting up in bed, and was talking on the telephone. She smiled at him as she concluded her conversation with a "Yes, that's fine; thank you very much." After setting the receiver back in the cradle, she said, "I ordered you coffee and some eggs and toast for breakfast."

"Thank you."

"Hope you saved some hot water for me," she said, her tone light and teasing as she leaned forward up off of the pillow; she had on a silken camisole that hung off of her shoulders in a way that reminded him of a shirt draped over a wooden clothes hanger. It revealed more of her small breasts than she would have ordinarily thought proper. He turned away, reaching for the shirt he'd brought, a casual cotton dress shirt, white with a tasteful grey check pattern.

"Of course," he said, slipping into his, buttoning it down the front. He turned back to her. She was still smirking. "What?"

"Never let it be said," she commented, "that you don't have your moments of impetuousness."

He looked down, feeling himself colour a little; he covered his embarrassment by turning back to his bag to retrieve his trousers. "You should…" he began, then cleared his throat as he donned them. "You should have your shower before breakfast arrives."

"Yes, want to get there early," she said; he heard her throw back the sheets, heard her delicate feet cross the room to the bath. "Have _so_ many things I want to talk to your mother about."

The door closed behind her and he let out a breath, then walked over to the balcony, looked at the sunlight dappling the grounds, the trees. It was a gorgeous day and, opening the French door, he stepped out onto the balcony for some air.

There was a light breeze, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, analysing what had happened last night. Just the brain churning up mental flotsam and jetsam; it meant nothing. He had heard the unmistakeable sounds of a vivacious, beautiful girl—

He blinked as if he'd been slapped in the face, so startling was the realisation that he thought of her as beautiful, possibly the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. She was radiant, her smile incandescent, her blue eyes bright and sparkling; she was overall lovely and guileless, and in her own way, perfect. He leaned forward to brace himself on the stone railing of the balcony, closing his eyes, feeling a little dizzy with the thoughts racing round his head.

"Had a good night from the sound of it, didn't you, Darcy?"

The sound of Daniel Cleaver's voice startled the living hell out of him; he jumped and turned to the next balcony over, seeing him leaning casually against his own balcony, cigarette nestled as per usual between his fingers.

Mark felt his expression turn to stone.

"I'm impressed, mate," continued Daniel in his usual jaunty manner. "How'd you manage to work 'round the stick up her arse?"

He heard a knock on the inner door, but even if he hadn't, he was so incensed he would have turned and headed back into the room anyway. He could hear Cleaver chuckling, then heard him answer his mobile. Mark closed the balcony door and fixed the lock, then went to get the door to the room. It was, as expected, the arrival of breakfast, which he accepted with a forced smile.

Mark wheeled the tray in, which also had the morning paper folded in half and resting on the side. His mood lightened a bit as he took his breakfast, his coffee, and the paper to the chair and table by the windows. He noticed her breakfast consisted of mixed fruit and tea. As his eyes skimmed over the front page all he could think of was that insubstantial breakfast, her skinny form, which inevitably and to his dismay made Mark think of Bridget and her full set of feminine curves.

"Ah, breakfast!" Natasha startled him from his thoughts, emerging with a robe on and a towel on her hair. "You needn't have waited for me, though—your eggs will be cold."

He realised he had yet to eat any of his food or drink any of his coffee. "Sorry, was just thinking."

"What about?"

"Oh," said Mark, turning the paper to look under the fold, "nothing important. Today's schedule, the case. Just a variety of things."

She sat at the table, pulling the towel from her hair and rubbing it against her damp locks. She then combed them back with her long fingers before reaching to pour her tea water and pop a square of melon into her mouth. "You just seemed very far away right now."

"I was, a little bit," he said. "I apologise."

"Oh, stop that, Mark," she said. "I'm in a very good, very forgiving mood." He glanced up to see a smile touching her lips.

"Always glad to hear that," he said, then immersed himself fully into his breakfast and the paper.

After eating, they worked a couple of hours more reviewing and revising case strategy before departing the hotel for the Alconburys; blessedly they did not again encounter Daniel and Bridget, and with any luck he would manage to give his former best friend a wide berth.

Immediately upon their arrival, Natasha made a beeline for Mark's parents; he went to fetch some wine for himself and Natasha, enjoying the sun and fresh air once again, and his thoughts flashed back to the previous afternoon on the water. After his return, as they strolled together, his father was obliviously disengaged and his mother, the epitome of patience as Natasha talked her ear off.

He heard a slight murmur ripple through the crowd and followed the gaze of those around them to see two things that rather surprised him: Bridget was without her boyfriend, and she was also clad in bunny girl regalia.

There was a moment when she looked completely stunned as she looked back at the other attendees who were decidedly not dressed as tarts or vicars; but then she closed her mouth and held her chin high as a surprised Una Alconbury rushed over to her with a Pimms. It became clear to Mark that Geoffrey Alconbury had purposely not mentioned the change from fancy dress party; his reason was evident when he reached to squeeze the tail and Una gave him a rather angry look.

Mark felt a surge of indignation rise in him, which shocked him: why on earth did he feel so damned protective of her, especially since she seemed to care so little for him? He also found he could not stop looking at her, for as much as he was angry on her behalf at Geoffrey, embarrassed for her at the attire she was wearing, he also thought she had one of the nicest, curviest, most feminine bodies he'd ever seen.

As they stopped walking, he heard Natasha say in a snotty, superior tone, "Bizarre what some men find attractive."

He swallowed hard, then said, intending on offering a short, to-the-point agreement with Natasha to smooth things over, "Yes." From the look she then shot him, it occurred to him that it sounded more like a throaty growl indicating _he_ found Bridget attractive.

Which was, he realised, actually not untrue. _Any man with a pulse would find her attractive,_ he thought. Reflexively he shot a look to his father to find that he, too, was gazing in Bridget's direction.

"Come on," Natasha piped up, abruptly directing them away from the scene. "Let's find a table in the shade."

They got all settled in with their wine at a table under the marquee; his mother and father decided to have some food, but Mark found he was not yet hungry, probably due to the filling breakfast he'd had. Natasha opted to stay with him at the table.

"While I'm thankful for all of the work we got done," she said, "I'm more thankful for the opportunity to get to know your parents better. And for, well, last night." He looked to her; she smiled impishly.

He cleared his throat. "Please let's not talk about that here."

"Right," she said. "They're paragons of class and taste here." Her voice had turned hard, sarcastic. "Did you know that your father told me that Bridget's father came dressed as a priest? Apple doesn't fall far from the tree there, does it?"

"Obviously no one told them about the change."

Natasha pushed impatient air through her lips. "Because yes, obviously, one would _want_ to take every opportunity to dress like a whore or a vicar in the country on the weekend."

She couldn't have made her disapproval of the very concept of that fancy dress party theme any plainer, so he merely picked up his wineglass and took another sip. Though he'd never had any intention to dress like a vicar himself, Mark certainly didn't think any less of either of the Joneses for their choice to dress up in fun for the party.

It wasn't entirely true, but in order to get away from the table, he said, "I'm feeling hungry. Think I'll go get something to eat."

"Oh," she purred. "Fetch me some lunch too?"

"Certainly."

He wandered over towards the grill, saw that quite a long line had formed. He figured wryly that perhaps by the time he reached the beginning, he might actually be hungry. He took two plates with napkins in hand and moved as the line did, deep in thought. Why couldn't he get Bridget out of his thoughts? It was irrational. It was insane.

With one person in front of him, someone Una addressed as Penny wearing a garish pink shirt, he saw Bridget approaching them, then move to turn away.

Just then, Una called out her name, and she turned back again, coming nearer to the grill just as Penny stepped away. He hadn't yet seen her from the front, and found himself unable to take his eyes away.

"It's a shame you couldn't bring your boyfriend, Bridget," said Una, grabbing away Mark's serviettes and placing a hot dog on each plate. "What's his name? David? Darren?"

"Daniel Cleaver," said Mark automatically.

"Oh!" said Una. "Is he a friend of yours, Mark?"

"Absolutely not," spat Mark.

"I hope he's good enough for our little Bridget," said Una in a tinkly voice.

"I think I could say with total confidence: absolutely not."

"I'm sure he'd say the same about you," interjected Bridget, "given your past behaviour."

"Sorry?" he asked, bewildered.

"I think you know what I mean."

As Bridget levelled her gaze at him, he heard Natasha call out his name. He was immediately struck by the stark contrast before him: in the foreground was Bridget, looking full and feminine with cleavage on unintentional display as she stood there in an adversarial, crossed-arm posture, and in the background stood Natasha, anything but well-endowed, looking almost mannish in comparison with the way her clothing hung from her thin frame.

Still silent, he passed by Bridget, still puzzling as to her meaning, to feel Natasha claim his arm in a terribly possessive manner as they walked back to their seats, where his mother and father had rejoined their table.

"Is that all you got, Mark?" asked his father. "A single hot dog each?"

He looked to his plate, saw that it was, in fact, quite devoid of sustenance save for a single grill-blackened hotdog. He glanced up to his mother, who looked confounded, and Natasha, who looked at him with a measure of scrutiny.

"What did you do, completely ignore the buffet?" said Natasha snippily.

"I'm sorry, I must have somehow missed it."

"It's a huge spread and you were a captive audience. What on earth is on your mind that you missed it?"

"I said I'm sorry," said Mark, bristling, deflecting that conversation in front of his parents, because he was sure she already suspected what was on his mind. "I'll go back for more for you if you like."

"I'll go myself," said Natasha, then added, reaffirming what he thought her suspicions might be, "Wouldn't want you to get further sidetracked." She turned back to Malcolm and Elaine, radiating all sweetness and light again. "Is there anything else I can get for you two?"

"No, m'dear," said Malcolm. "We're fine."

Natasha flashed a smile to them, before shooting a look at Mark, then taking her plate away and back towards the buffet.

When Mark looked at his parents, he saw Malcolm looking content, even happy, but his mother looked seriously displeased. "Mark, did _you_ want some more to eat?"

His father chimed in, "Have to have some more to eat. Let me get some salad for you. Really quite delicious."

Before Mark could protest, Malcolm swept up Mark's plate, then followed in Natasha's footsteps.

"Mark," said Elaine. "May I be frank with you?"

"Always, Mother," he said.

Elaine lowered her voice. "I don't like that woman. I don't like how she talks to you, how she bosses you around, and I don't like how chummy she presumes to be with your father and me."

"I'm sorry, Mother," said Mark, because really, he couldn't disagree with her assessment.

Elaine sighed. "Mark, you know I love you, and I certainly don't mean to offend you, but I don't honestly understand your attachment to that woman."

He looked down. It was pathetic to him that the first thing he wanted to say was that he didn't understand it either, except as a result of inertia. He certainly didn't love her.

"Even still," continued his mother, "I sense something more at work here. You seem troubled, distracted… why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

He met his mother's eyes and decided in that moment to just unload his burden.

"It's Bridget Jones."

Elaine blinked in disbelief. "What about her?"

"I…" He paused, suddenly feeling foolish and juvenile. "We've had a couple more… encounters. I find that she's on my mind a lot, and I can't make sense of it."

Elaine bloomed with a broad smile. "Attraction doesn't always make sense," she said.

"I realise that," he said, feeling colour flood his face to hear her verbalise his feelings, especially all of the consideration he'd given her faults. "Believe me, I realise that in spades."

"She is quite attractive."

"But it isn't just a physical attraction," he said. "I feel… strangely protective about her. I'm worried that Daniel is going to hurt her, and I want to do everything in my power to prevent it." He looked to make sure Natasha and Malcolm were not yet returning. They apparently had stopped to talk to someone he didn't recognise. "The strangest thing is that what I'm drawn to is… well, because of things I would ordinarily find unappealing, like her tendency to speak impulsively, her generally carefree spirit…." His mother said nothing, only regarded him with an intent gaze. "And it's all made more complicated by the fact that one, she hates me," he continued, counting out the reasons on his fingers, "and two, she's in love with Daniel."

"Daniel?" she replied, surprised. "_That_ Daniel?"

"The very one."

"Oh, Mark." She sat back in her chair. "I'm so sorry." She paused to glance towards her husband. "Hate is such a strong word."

"I have no other explanation for the way she regards me."

"She did hear your very unkind comment at New Year's," Elaine reminded.

He sighed.

"An apology might go a long way," she continued.

"I did deserve her dislike for that, for which I would like to make amends," he said.

"Of _course_ you want to make amends," she said.

"I'm not sure an apology will be enough, though," he went on to say. "This seems so much more than dislike, and I'm afraid I've made things worse." He thought of his paddling pool comment at the book launch, after which she seemed even more hostile towards him.

"My poor son," said Elaine sympathetically, but he noticed her small smile.

He levelled his most penetrating gaze at her. "What is the smile about?"

Elaine returned the gaze equally; the apple did not fall far from the tree in this case, either. "Love does not come without its obstacles."

He was too stunned to speak. "Are you suggesting…"

"I am, Mark," she said with a grin. "I recognise the signs."

"_Mother_—"

She shushed him. "Mark. God knows you could use a woman more like Bridget than Natasha. Bridget would balance out your very serious nature." She glanced up again. "They're coming back. Just try to talk to her, tell her how you feel. Plead your case. You're good at that."

"Here you are, son," said Malcolm, setting a plate that was now filled to heaping with food. He presumed the hot dog was still in there somewhere. He thanked his father, then dug the fork he'd brought and ate a cube of potato salad.

He saw that Natasha, for all of her complaining, had only gotten a scoop of fruit salad and a small pool of mustard for the hot dog.

He continued to work his way through the plate of food, thinking about what his mother had said. Surely his mother was wrong; surely he was not actually in love with a woman he barely knew, who was the opposite of everything he should want in a woman, and one who hated him on top of that. How else, though, to explain the irrational feelings he felt, the need to ensure she was not hurt by Daniel, the fact that he could not stop thinking about her despite all of these things?

He happened to glance up to the grill area and saw Bridget now at the front of the line, holding her plate full of side salads of every possible variety, her chin up, attempting a smile, putting on a brave face. He knew, though, that she was humiliated. He watched other men looking at her, imagined Geoffrey Alconbury at the grill was ogling her, and he felt a rush of outrage on her behalf.

He realised there was no way around it. He had to talk to her. He needed to try to call a cease-fire, offer at least friendship, smooth over the disasters of the past. He also wanted to get her something, anything, to ease her embarrassment.

"Excuse me," Mark said, abruptly rising from the table. "I need to find Una Alconbury."

Natasha, as expected, looked peeved. "Mark. Finish your lunch."

"I've had quite enough," he said. With that, he walked off, looking for Una.

Una had been relieved of grilling duties, so he meandered through the party until he found her.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," said Mark. "May we speak in private?"

"Certainly," she replied, and they walked over to stand by a hedge.

"I was wondering if I might ask a favour. I feel terrible for Bridget's embarrassment and want to know if you might have something she could slip over her… outfit."

"Hm, I might, though with Janine no longer at home I'm afraid I'd be limited to a possible bridesmaid's dress or two."

"I don't think she'd mind."

Una smiled, then gestured towards the house. "It is kind of funny, when you think about it," she said.

"As lovely as she looks," he said, "I doubt she thinks so."

Una looked at him with an expression that was difficult to classify, then said, "Well, Mark. Why don't you come with me to the house and I'll see if I can't find that dress."

Once in the house, Una led him to a spare room, rifling through the closet for many minutes until she found a mint green taffeta monstrosity. "Oh, this will do nicely, don't you think?" said Una, beaming up proudly to him, pulling the skirt of the dress wider for inspection. "I think she'll like it."

"I think it will do," was all Mark was willing to commit to. Frankly, knowing what he knew of Bridget, she'd think it as appalling as he did. Curiously, this made him smile.

"Good then. I'll just leave it here, then let Bridget know."

"No," said Mark. "I'll find her. I've been… meaning to speak with her anyway."

"Oh!" she replied brightly. "All right then."

They left the house, and Una made a beeline for her friends, including Bridget's mother, who was in the company of a man he did not know. Mark scanned the crowd for Bridget's bunny ears, but did not see them.

After a few more minutes of wandering with fruitless results, he decided to approach Bridget's father, who was standing off by himself having a cigarette.

He thought of Natasha's earlier comment about apples and trees, found himself smiling again.

"Mark," he said. "Good to see you."

"Hello, sir," said Mark. "Just wondering if you knew where your daughter was."

"On the road back to London, I wager," said Mr Jones. "Car showed up for her not five minutes ago."

Mark felt decidedly deflated. "Well, thank you," he said, then added, "Sorry about the… you know. Party miscommunication."

He shrugged. "That's the way it goes. My luck, I mean," he said, grinning in a self-effacing manner. "Come trying to win back my own wife and look like a fool in a vicar's get-up."

Mark smiled sympathetically. "You look better than Bernard."

He chuckled. "Didn't spend as much as he did, anyway."

They said their goodbyes and Mark glanced over to where his parents and Natasha were sitting, only to find Natasha's penetrating gaze on him.

Well, he supposed he had been away from the table for far too long.

He returned and made his apologies for having been away longer than expected, and as he took his seat, like usual, Natasha took to speaking authoritatively on some subject or other. Mark, however, paid no heed, as was becoming his habit. He had other things on his mind.

Like resolving to speak to Bridget Jones at the first possible occasion… while somehow managing not to speak with Daniel.

_The end._

* * *

End Notes (if you want links, go to LJ):

From Helen Fielding's first draft script:

_MARK and UNA having a private conversation. _

_UNA: I suppose I could get her one of Janine's bridesmaid's dresses, but don't you think it's hilarious? _

_MARK: It's heaven. But maybe not for her._

Carla Meyer, Chronicle Movie Critic: "In one scene, Bridget struggles mightily to maintain a cool facade in front of Darcy, all while sporting a ridiculously windblown hairdo. Zellweger is playing so many emotions in this scene it's hard to keep track. There's pride, embarrassment and the conflict of realizing that she cares enough to put on a show for this guy. It's the kind of layered acting that makes a great performance—and sublime comedy."


End file.
